


Get Lucky

by ivyness



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Winterhawk Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 03:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17216222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyness/pseuds/ivyness
Summary: Clint gets acquired by a dog. The dog finds him a husband.





	Get Lucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1000_directions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/gifts).



> Prompt: people being nice to each other and being stronger together :) canon or au is fine, sex or no sex is fine, i just like gentleness and kissing and everything else is a bonus :)

Clint is naked except for his favorite pair of ratty, purple boxers when the doorbell rings and he doesn’t bother pulling on a robe when he goes to open the door. Guy, the pizza guy, has seen him in worse conditions and at this point the neighbors would be more scandalized if Clint came out looking like a normal, functioning, adult human being. Last time, he was in a flaming hula skirt with moldy pasta braiding through his hair; he can’t fall much further than that.

Except, when he opens the door, there is neither pizza nor Guy. Instead, there’s a sad looking waif of a dog with the most dejected of hangdog expressions, drooling on his bare feet. “Aw dog, no.” Clint sighs, but the dog whines at him and rubs its furry face against his ankles. What little resolve he has crumples like his flaming hula skirt and he opens the door to let the wagging, wet mass of golden fur follow him inside.

The next time the doorbell rings, Clint opens the door in purple sweatpants he put on to deter pointy dog nails. Guy raises an judgemental eyebrow at how put together he looks, and after tipping him, Clint feels more than justified in flipping him the bird. 

The dog steals more than half his pizza and drools on his bed.

Thing continue as they started. And over the next few days, the dog starves Clint out of house and home and it isn’t long before even the moldy pasta has been eaten.

Clint stares dejectedly into his empty fridge before walking over to stare dejectedly into his empty closet. He turns to one of the piles of clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor and picks out the cleanest looking pair of jeans, a ratty purple sweatshirt and a surprisingly clean purple bandana. He ties the bandana around the dog’s neck and the dog wags his tail enthusiastically, whining happily at a pitch just outside of Clint’s range of hearing. The dog wiggles in glee, practically pawing at the door to get outside and Clint hurriedly snatches up a backpack before letting himself be herded out the door. 

Their first stop is the bank.

Clint usually tries to avoid the bank at all costs. Something about the starchy, dying air makes him feel nervous and inadequate. He fortifies his soul, heaves thirty pounds of dog into his arms and walks in, careful not to see the ‘No Pets Allowed’ sign hanging by the door. He’s hoping to hop in and out before any of the tellers look over from their little plexiglass perches to shoo him away. 

Unfortunately, there’s already someone at the ATM when Clint wanders in. He waits, fidgeting at the other end of the small glass room that holds the bank’s one ATM, studiously refusing to make eye contact with any of the bank’s tellers and trying in vain to hide the armful of happy dog. 

The ATM guy curses and angrily punches the chirpy buttons. The harsh beep of an error message sounds, over and over, as the guy blindly jabs. 

A security guard shifts on his feet, watching them, and Clint tentatively clears his throat, “Hey, you uh, you need a hand?”

The guy’s head jerks up and as he whips around lighting fast, Clint catches the harsh glint of metal from his fingers, going up and up, until the guy hastily pushes his hand into his sweatshirt pocket. “What did you say?” he asks, somewhere between a growl and a drawl.

The dog twists towards the ATM guy, clawing at Clint’s sweatshirt and Clint hikes him up into a better grip, nodding to the still beeping machine, “I could give you a hand with the ATM. Things are finicky sometimes.”

The guy gives him a sceptical look as the dog nearly wiggles out of Clint’s arms. “It seems like you’re the one who needs a hand,” the guy says, stepping aside, “You go on ahead. I’ll just -” he hesitates, “Go. To the counter,” he says, sounding resigned.

Clint hesitates, he hadn’t wanted to force the guy out, but from the corner of his eye he can see the security guard fidgeting, clearly thinking about making their way over, so he hikes up the dog into a fireman’s carry and pulls out three thick wads of cash from his hoodie to deposit into the ATM. 

He hears a choking sound behind him. “What?” he asks, holding onto the pile of dog and cash, and twisting to look behind him.

“You a stripper or something?” the guy says, his face lined with suppressed amusement.

Clint grins, flattered, raking his eyes appreciatively over the guy’s sweatshirt and sweatpants that do nothing to hide his broad shoulders and strong jaw, the kind tilt of his lips. “Aw, you got me,” he says with a laugh, “what gave it away?”

“The cash and your ass,” he says, deadpan and perfectly serious, his eyes a riot of fun.

Clint gives a loud, honking laugh and the dog wiggles around to give slobbering kisses all over his face. “Aw dog, no,” he says, trying to wipe his wet face clean with his shoulder. 

The guy smiles, brilliant and handsome and despite the handfuls of cash, a dog thrown over his shoulder and his face covered in gooey slobber, Clint has never felt sexier. “You got a pretty nice ass yourself,” Clint says, sassy and shameless.

“So,” the guy says, moving to lean one arm against the wall in a way that should look awkward but instead just shows off the delicate line down to his torso, “You come here often?”

Clint blinks, thrown. “Oh. Uh, nah, don’t like going to the bank.”

The guy straightens from his slightly slouched position, glances down at Clint’s handfuls of cash and then back up, “Sure,” the guys says, his grin a wry twist of his lips. 

“But I wouldn’t mind going somewhere else more often. With you. Going somewhere else with you. More often” Clint says in a tumble of words that makes them both grin at each other, big and sloppy with a large side of feelings until they hear a knock on the glass, the security guard, glaring and pointing to the ‘No Pets Allowed’ sign. Laughing like lunatics, they finish their business and hoof it out of there.

Their second stop is the grocery store.

The ATM guy - “Call me Bucky,” he says - is tagging along with them. “I need to do a grocery run anyway,” he grins, wide and cocky, and not fooling anyone. Clint pretends like Bucky’s isn’t the most handsome smile he’s ever seen. “Besides I’m curious to see what a stripper eats.” Clint shoves at him but Bucky just laughs, unrepentant.

The grocery store is actually just a small corner shop but it has everything Clint needs. Into his basket goes frozen pizza, pizza rolls, Lucky Charms, and nachos. Bucky has a basket of his own but with a faintly horrified look drags Clint back to the front of the store where all the fresh produce is. 

Into Clint’s basket goes apples, spinach and celery and it’s Clint’s turn to give Bucky a horrified look. “Didn’t you hear the CDC recalled all the spinach?”

Bucky looks at him, exasperated, “That was months ago.”

Clint gingerly pinches the spinach between two fingers and flings it back onto its rack. “I can’t risk my health like that.”

Bucky looks pointedly at the contents of Clint’s basket and drags him away for more vegetables. And honestly Clint can’t complain if he gets to keep Bucky’s eyes on him for a little while longer. Besides, the dog likes Bucky.

The dog follows them around the store, winding through their legs and tripping Clint into piles of precariously stacked produce. Laughing, Bucky helps Clint up from the pile of bread he knocked over and reaches down to surreptitiously scratch the dog’s head, his left hand a glint of metal. Bucky doesn’t say anything but Clint lets himself be herded to Bucky’s right side and snags two loaves of bread from the floor.

“You can’t live on carbs,” Bucky says.

“Watch me.”

Bucky smiles at him, slow and sappy, “Yeah, I’d like to.”

Blushing from the tips of his ears, Clint makes a beeline for the coolers in the back of the store, throwing open a door to let the cool air wash over his burning face. He hears footsteps and the clack of nails on linoleum before a hand reaches past his head into the cooler to pull out a six-pack of beer. Clint turns and finds Bucky, a smirk on his stupidly handsome face and the dog panting happily against his legs. 

The beer case balances precariously on the tips of Bucky’s fingers. “Let me buy you a drink?” Bucky asks. 

“Oh my god, you are such an ass,” Clint says, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and barely stopping himself from swooning like a maiden, “You could at least get the good beer.”

“Well,” Bucky says, all rumbling drawl and sexy smirk, “I was hoping we wouldn’t be doing a lot of drinking.” His eyes run insinuating up and down Clint, leaving a blushing line of fire in its wake.

“Urk,” Clint says, eloquently and thinks about maybe just stepping right inside the cooler.

An eyebrow raises. “Is that a yes?” A pause in which Clint desperately searches for English. “Please say that’s a yes.”

“You have terrible lines but clearly I have terrible taste,” Clint says as he grabs Bucky’s wrist, tugging him towards the register to pay. 

Clint drags him all the way back to his tiny, messy apartment, laughing the whole way with the dog’s happy yips following them home.

Later, much later, when Bucky is fast asleep, naked and tucked under Clint’s threadbare sheets, smushed against the wall on his single mattress with the dog curled up warm against their feet, Clint gives the dog a name. 

Lucky.

Because he got lucky that night. And he thinks, he hopes, that if he’s just lucky enough, maybe, he’ll get to keep them both. 

Years later, when their wedding rings have long ago left permanent tan lines on their fingers, and Clint has kissed five metal fingertips, so, so gently, and Bucky has nuzzled the vulnerable space behind the ear where sound does not carry. Later, when they are as sure in themselves as they are in each other, Bucky thinks to ask how Lucky got his name. 

Clint blushes furiously and runs for the nearest cooler.


End file.
